


The Mauve Dust

by eloquated



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Kid Sherlock Holmes, Kidlock, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 16:49:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18898690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquated/pseuds/eloquated
Summary: There was something strange about the mauve dust they'd found at the scene of the crime...Especially when it transforms the World's Only Consulting Detective into a precocious three-year-old!





	The Mauve Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to "El is trying to finish the fics in her WIP folder"! This one has been waiting for me to give it some love for over a month, and I'm thrilled to finally be able to post it!
> 
> So hold on, and enjoy the mystery of The Mauve Dust!

**1.**

It started with a bang.

A literal bang, that nearly jolted John off the couch and onto the floor, roused with alarm from his brief nap.  Of all the days that Sherlock had to start experimenting again-- why couldn’t it be when he wasn’t stuck between a pair of night shifts?!

Gritting his teeth in frustration, jaw clenched tight enough to ache, John pushed himself up into a sitting position and tried not to cough on the thin, odd smelling smoke that plumed from the kitchen, and settled in a dusty soot everywhere.  Chemistry had never been his strongest subject, but John was fairly sure that nothing healthy came in that particular colour of mauve.

“Sherlock..?  Sherlock, mate, what’s going on… in…  Oh.”

Blinking hard, and waving away the smoke, John tried to process what his eyes were telling him.  He blinked again, and the image didn’t fade.

A third time, and the small, curly haired little boy was still standing in the kitchen.  

What had been in that dust?!

Streaked with pinkish soot, the boy  _ seemed  _ unharmed.  He was also standing in an alarmingly familiar purple shirt, and wearing a pair of safety glasses lopsidedly around his neck.  Glasses that looked like they’d probably been on his face before, from the clear rings around his bright, blue-green eyes.

In fact, that longer he looked, the more John was starting to think that there really had been something in that smoke-- because the alternative was simply not possible.  

Not.

He was a doctor’s for chrissakes!  If there had been some medical breakthrough that allowed people to age in reverse, he would have heard about it!

Of course, the medical profession had never been prepared for Sherlock Holmes experimenting on the strange, translucent powder they’d uncovered at their last crime scene.  

“Who are  _ you? _ ”  The boy piped, his voice high and imperious, even as he lisped around the rolling R sound.  And that tone. That expression, like John had just said something impossibly stupid. It all left no doubt who was standing in front of him.

_ Oh bloody Hell… I need to call Mycroft.  Now. And he’s not going to like this, not one bit. _

“Me?  John Watson, your--”  John brought himself up short, wondering just what he should say.  There was no precedent to dealing with your roommate when he was 2 feet tall, and crossing his arms in preparation for a massive snit if he didn’t get his answers.  “Babysitter.”

Sherlock didn’t look convinced.

“This is  _ London _ .”  He said with a childish huff and, tracking tiny pink footprints behind him, Sherlock clamored up onto a kitchen chair by the window, and pointed outside.  “I don’t live in London. Yet.” He added, the added height of the chair still leaving him short of looking John in the eye. “If I was in London, I would be with my  _ uncle _ .  Or my  _ parents. _ ”

“Do you… want me to call your parents?”  John wasn’t sure how well that would go over, and as he waited for Sherlock to consider the offer, he fished his mobile off the coffee table and shot Mycroft a text.

_ <Sherlock needs help.  Come to flat. ASAP> _

“What?”  Looking up from the screen, John gave himself a shake, and tried to ignore the withering expression on the toddler’s face.  At least he wasn’t crying -- he wasn’t sure he could have coped with a crying Sherlock. Some things were just too strange!

“I  _ said _ , is this a kidnapping?”  Sherlock lisped again, shushing the noises across his pursed lips.  

“What?!  No! I’m just... I’m trying to call your brother.  And he can come take care of you.”

Sherlock didn’t look terribly reassured by the idea, and the silence that fell in the living room was thick and tense.  “How do I know you’re  _ really _ calling my brother?”  He demanded, his skinny back pressed up against the window in a way that made John’s stomach lurch.

If his little brother toppled out the window, Mycroft was going to have his guts for garters!

“Hey, why don’t you come down from there?  Now. I just texted Mycroft, and I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”  By the end of the sentence, John was feeling a little more confident.  Just because Sherlock was looking at him like he was an insect didn’t mean anything.  He was still a child. 

Who wasn’t moving.

“Sherlock.  I said down.   _ Now _ .”  John repeated in a clipped tone, squaring his shoulders against the stubborn child.  “It’s not safe to be that close to the window, and you’re going to get hurt.”

“Won’t.”

“Look, I said get down, and I meant it, mate.  I want your feet on the floor in 5... 4… 3…”

Sherlock froze, his chest puffed out with a deep breath.  For a moment, it looked like he was going to give in, but who was this stranger to think he could boss him around?!  “Won’t!” He shot back, his skinny arms rail straight at his sides, and hands curled into little fists.

In the space of three minutes, John wasn’t sure how he had managed to lose control of the situation.  This was a child. Just like any other child, no matter how smart he was! 

Thankfully, their stalemate was broken by the sound of footsteps-- fast, running-- up the stairs.  And stopping hard as Mycroft Holmes, umbrella forgotten, lurched to a halt in the doorway. 

Even his heart felt like it had seized in his chest as he stared at the pint sized little boy that his brother had once been. A very, very long time before.  Filthy with soot, and wearing clothes that were vastly too big, and  _ oh _ … Once upon a time, that hadn’t been so strange at all.

“Mycie!”  Sherlock blurted with childish relief, his chair rattling for an ominous instant as he propelled himself off the seat, his tiny feet hitting the floor at a run.  “You came!”

The sound of his childhood nickname in that piping voice seemed to shake Mycroft out of his shock, and he leaned down to catch his brother before he barrelled into his legs.  “Of course, I came, brother mine. You know you can’t be in London without one of us. We’d be very worried if we lost you.” He said, voice tight with twisted, razor edged emotion that he couldn’t even hope to put a name to.

“Sorry… I don’t know  _ how _ I gots here.”  

John wasn’t entirely sure how Sherlock had even recognized his brother, and for a moment he wondered if he would have known his sister, if the situation had been reversed.  It wasn’t a comfortable thought, so he ignored it for the time being. His sister wasn’t the mad genius sort, anyway.

Retreating to the far side of the room, John watched with mingled confusion and amusement as Mycroft settled the grubby child on his hip; heedless of the fact that his suit probably cost as much as John’s education.  Carnival mirrors weren’t as strange as the scene playing out in front of him.

Huffing a huge sigh of relief, Sherlock threw his skinny arms around his brother’s neck, all loose limbs beneath the ridiculous drape of his grown-up purple shirt.  “I’m staying with you. Right?” He asked insistently, watching Mycroft from beneath a fringe of soft, black curls. 

Mycroft nodded shallowly, and fished his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away the worst of the pink soot on his brother’s small, round face.  “Of course. I--”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”  John interjected, and found himself pinned with a mutinous look from Sherlock, and a single, devastatingly arched eyebrow from Mycroft.  Stubbornly he squared his shoulders and straightened his spine, a soldier wading in. “Do you know the first thing about taking care of children, Mycroft?  He can’t be more than three-”

“And a  _ half _ .”  Sherlock cut in, and gripped his brother’s collar, crushing the fabric and leaving smeary pink fingerprints behind.  “Mycie, don’t let him! I wanna stay with you!”

“Thank you for your concern, Dr. Watson, but I’m certain my brother and I will be fine.”  And, shrugging off his own jacket to wrap it snugly around Sherlock, Mycroft began to make his way back downstairs.

Later, his backwards gaze said clearly, he and John would talk. 

And find a way to return Sherlock to normal.

 

**2.**

“Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clements!”  

“Sherlock...“

“You owe me five farthings, say the bells of St. Martin's!”

“ _ Sherlock… _ ”

They were only halfway home when Sherlock had picked up the macabre rhyme, his small voice trilling all merrily beside his big brother.  They weren’t anywhere near St. Clement’s, or St. Martin’s, but the sight of a similarly old-looking church had been more than enough to set off the giggling three-year-old.

“If you didn’t want me to say it, shouldn’t have teached me!”  Was the mischievous reply, and Mycroft had to concede that point.

Of course, Mycroft been ten at the time, and had no idea the trouble it would cause later!  Or how quickly his baby brother would memorize it. Or how he would run around the house, gleefully singing it at the top of his lungs!  (Mycroft did remember the running, and the noise, and the aggrieved look on his mother’s face, however).

There was no point in asking him to stop, not really.  Such things would only encourage him! Ruefully, Mycroft leaned back against his seat, and spared a glance down when Sherlock snuggled in against his side.

“Here comes a candle to light you to bed--”  He sang hopefully, and poked Mycroft’s arm pointedly.

“Yes yes, alright… And here comes a chopper to chop off your head!” 

Sherlock squealed with excitement when his big brother tickled his sides, his small feet barely reaching the edge of the seat and drumming against the fine leather with gusto.  “I knewed you remembered!” 

“ _ Knew _ , brother mine.  ‘Knew’ is already in the past tense, you don’t need to add to it.”

“Are you sure?”  He asked skeptically, his soft, toddler fingers searching out the button on Mycroft’s overcoat to fidget with.  Of course, if his brother said it was true, it probably was; not that Sherlock cared overmuch for grammar! People understood him, even when his mother despaired of his lisp, and he enjoyed the way it made her frown in frustration!

“Entirely.  I suppose we’ll have to find you some clothes.  Otherwise--”

“I’ll be naked!”  Sherlock had never liked clothes; they were itchy and scratchy, and he was never allowed to pull off the shiny buttons for treasure.  Stupid clothes!

“And I shall have to wrap you in your pretty purple shirt, and carry you.  Because even pirates don’t run around London in naught but their bare feet and skins.”

Oh.  

Sherlock considered this point, and demandingly pulled Mycroft’s arm around his shoulders so he could lean against his side.  “Are you  _ sure? _  Pirates are sneaky.”

It was the most surreal thing-- one minute, he had been sitting in a meeting with the Peruvian ambassador, and the next?  Risking a international incident when he’d gotten John’s text, and his heart had gone to live in his throat. Mycroft found it hard to ignore the pang in his chest when he looked down at the trusting mop of black curls.  It had been easier then, between them; he hadn’t left for university yet, and Sherlock hadn’t started with the drugs.

They’d been close.  Mycroft had been the centre of his brother’s world, and seeing him like this?  It was a mirror held up to how distant they’d grown.

Sherlock had needed something from him, that he couldn’t give.  And everything had changed after that.

“Very sneaky, Lock.  And streakers tend to attract rather a lot of attention.  You wouldn’t want that, hm? Besides, it would look silly to have a sword belt and no trousers.”

“And pirates are  _ never _ silly…”

“No, dearest.  Only when they want to be.”

Across his brother’s chest, Sherlock looked up through the tinted car window and watched the tops of the buildings as they slid by.  It was very nice to have an adventure with Mycie, especially when their parents weren’t here to tell them what to do, or to drag them to the boring theatre.

Yes, he liked this very much.

“Sherlock… Ah..”  With only the two of them in the back of the car, there was nobody else to see the way Mycroft’s expression softened when he looked down.  Sherlock’s eyes were heavy lidded and nearly closed, his head pillowed on Mycroft’s chest. “Hush now, I won’t let you miss any of the adventure.  Even pirates need to take the occasional nap.”

“No... no nap…”  Protested the toddler, who frowned when Mycroft guided his thumb away from his mouth.  Naps were for babies, and he was three  _ and a half _ .  He didn’t need those anymore!

But it was comfortable.

He liked the way Mycroft’s fingers carded through his hair-- he didn’t need to stop doing that.  

And it wasn’t really a nap if he didn’t sleep.  He could just close his eyes for a tiny minute, and then he’d be awake and ready to have more fun!

He was fast asleep before they reached Knightsbridge, curled in under the weight of Mycroft’s coat.  

It was easier to just carry him inside, Mycroft decided.  The entirely logical option. Nobody wanted an overtired and cranky toddler!

Which meant it had nothing to do with the way Sherlock snuggled in closer, all warm and limp in his arms, and damp breath against the side of his neck.  

And nothing to do with the way he could keep him safe, for now.

Nothing at all.

 

**3.**

When a pirate came in from the sea, they became an explorer.  Or so Sherlock had decided, as he crept through the impossibly boring corridors of Mycroft’s house.  It was all very neat and tidy, with dull accents and soft watercolours on some of the walls. And oh, his brother could paint so nicely, so why did he insist on painting trees and buildings and  _ boring _ things like that?! 

Mycroft could paint pirate ships, and mermaid lagoons, and he made absolutely the very best treasure maps!  

Sherlock knew.  He’d seen them. Owned them.  And had a few of them on his bedroom wall, where Mycroft had hung them up with bits of sticky tape.  One of them had even lead Sherlock all through the garden, and around to the cemetery gate, where he’d hung Sherlock’s birthday present!  

He still thought it would have been better buried, but his big brother hadn’t wanted to be disrespectful to the dead-- whatever that meant!

Still smeared in mauve and wearing the oversized purple shirt (and Sherlock wasn’t sure he approved of purple!  It was a very girly colour, according to his cousin, Victor), Sherlock hitched up the trailing hem and continued his exploration of the house.

It was still boring.

And then he found the library.  

From the doorway, Sherlock stared up and up at the high shelves; so high it felt like they were going to come toppling down on him at any moment!  They were covered with leather bound editions, the spines glinting with gold embossed lettering, just like the books back home. The big ones that Sherlock wasn’t allowed to play with, because they were his father’s special, and very expensive books.

Mercifully for Chaucer and Shakespeare, Sherlock’s gaze was pulled from the books (though out of sight was certainly not out of mind!) by the solid, black bulk of the piano that sat to one side of the room.

“It’s  _ dusty! _ ”  He huffed, a furrow forming between his brows as Sherlock dragged his small fingers defiantly through the thin layer of grey that covered the instrument.  “That’s not good!” He added, to nobody in particular, and proceeded to try writing his name on the side of the piano.

“S…  Ǝ … R…”  He muttered under his breath, enjoying the way the dust sheared cleanly away, and left the gleaming black surface mirror-bright underneath.  “No. No no no. S-  _ H _ …  Ǝ ... R… L.. With the feet on the bottom… O… C… C….”  Sherlock paused to look at his handiwork, and huffed in annoyance.  There was supposed to be another letter after the C, he was sure of it!

But the letter wouldn’t appear in his head, even when he squinted at the writing, and tugged on his curls, it just wouldn’t come out!  And Sherlock was as lost on the last letter of his name, as he was on why Mycroft’s piano was covered in dust in the first place.

“Sherlock…?  Ah-- there you are!  Lock, I thought you were asleep.”

With a start, Sherlock spun around on his bare feet, and would have tripped over the trailing hem of his shirt entirely, had Mycroft not darted forward to pick him up!

“Nope!”  He chirped, and settled himself comfortably on his brother’s hip, “Went exploring.  Your piano is dirty.” Sherlock added reproachfully, and resisted the urge to pat his brother’s cheek when he caught the hastily banished look of … Sadness?  He wasn’t sure. But it was only dust, it could wash off!

Sherlock knew a lot about dirt.  Everything there was to know, according to his Mummy!

“I’ve been very busy, Lock.  Too busy to play. That happens, sometimes, when you get older.  Adults don’t always have the time to do what they want. But you need a bath, I could nearly follow your purple footprints here from the living room!”  

“Nope!”  Sherlock beamed again, and popped the last syllable loudly with the end of his tongue.

“How is it, brother mine, that you can’t say ‘spider’ without lisping, and yet, you can make that sound?”  

“Smart!”  But, as usual, the fricative S was shushed into something more like a -Th.

Mycroft bit his tongue, and passed a hand over the top of his brother’s mad curls.  They came away streaked with mauve, and he held them up for Sherlock to see, “You are, yes.  Though you forgot the K at the end of your name. But even very exceptional little boys need to bathe.  Especially when they’re covered in mysterious mess like this.”

The problem with being only three, Sherlock decided very quickly, was that your big brother could carry you to the bath, whether you liked it, or not.  

“Bubbles.  Lots of bubbles!”

“What do you say?”

“Bubbles…”  Sherlock stuck out his tongue, and curled the end, as if he could stretch out his lisp, “Please.  And music! After.”

“You want me to play for you?’

With Sherlock in his lap, Mycroft perched on the high, scrolled edge of his bathtub.  It was a freestanding thing, and deep enough that he could stretch out without half his body being out of the water.  

Sherlock could probably swim in it!

There had been many baths over the years.  From childhood ones with bubbles, and toys that always seemed to linger at the bottom of the tub when the water had been drained; to, only a week before, a piping hot one to chase off the chill of the Thames, after Sherlock had managed to get himself unceremoniously soaked (and half drowned!) in the pursuit of justice.

And Mycroft could remember how he liked the water-- just a touch warmer than their Mummy felt comfortable with, and how his pale skin would pink up with the heat.  “I suppose I could. So long as you promise to go to sleep after. Anthea was very kind, and brought you some clothing, so we can send this shirt for cleaning.”

Sherlock didn’t know what an Anthea was, but over Mycroft’s shoulder he could see the neatly folded stack of clothes on the counter-- most of them still with the tags on.  Even from his limited vantage point, he could make out the ridiculously cartoonish dog on the front of a pair of…

“Dungarees!”  He spluttered, affronted by the very idea of them, “Mycie!  No! NO!” 

In a rush, Sherlock tried to wriggle down from his brother’s lap, but Mycroft held tight and began the task of untangling the toddler from his full sized shirt.

“Sherlock,  _ enough _ .  I think she bought half of Harrods, I’m certain there’s something that will meet with your approval.  Now, into the bath, before we discover that this mauve business is actually caustic. Or sentient.”

For half a moment, Mycroft thought his brother was going to rebel-- but with a dark look (for the overalls, and not his brother) Sherlock allowed himself to be relocated into the water.

Sherlock’s poor mood seemed to evaporate with the bubbles, and before long, the little boy was grinning up from the bath, his black curls dusted with purple, and covered in a towering hat of sliding, soapy foam.  “Mycie, look! Look’it me! Look!”

“Sherlock, on your bum, you don’t want to slip.  And yes, I see, very impressive.”

Mycroft hadn’t been kidding about Anthea-- there were shirts and pants and pajamas, tiny socks and trousers. They’d guessed at the sizes, and the hated dungarees were discarded to the side, along with a few other anthropomorphic animals that Sherlock had eyed with the same mutinous expression as the dog.  

_ Thank goodness,  _ he allowed himself,  _ Sherlock is old enough that I don’t have to worry about nappies and bottles. _

“Alright, Lockie, close your eyes and lets wash this out of your hair.  Then we can find you something for dinner..”

“Ginger nuts!”

“Real food.  Proper food.”  Mycroft had to bite his tongue to stifle a laugh.  It had been years since Sherlock had laughed so openly with him, and though he knew they would have to find a way to bring him back to normal?  Part of him knew he would sorely miss this giggling, smiling Sherlock.

“Yuck!”

“Delicious.  Carrots.”

“Ew! No!”

“Mushrooms?”   
  
“My- _ cie _ !  Stop!”

“Tapioca…”  Mycroft trailed off teasingly, and held one hand over Sherlock’s eyes while he washed the mauve dust from his gagging little brother’s hair.

“No!  No no no!  Never!” He protested from under his hand, eyes squeezed closed to keep the soap out.  

Taking mercy, Mycroft finished his work quickly, his fingers moving through Sherlock’s tangled curls with muscle memory tenderness.  His brother hated people touching his hair, always had, and there was a little part of Mycroft that had taken comfort in the knowledge that he was the sole exception.

Wriggling unhappy in the water, Sherlock made no effort to hold still while Mycroft fished him out, and wrapped him snugly in a towel that was bigger, far bigger, than the skinny toddler.  “You wouldn’t.. Right? Not tapioca, not ever?”

“My silly Lockie… No, I wouldn’t.  I know you don’t like the way it feels.”  

Mollified, but only just (because really!  Tapioca? And mushrooms?!) Sherlock snuggled into Mycroft’s chest, and rested his clean, wet head on his shoulder.  “Good.”

Apparently forgiven, Mycroft scooped up the knew clothes in his free arm, and bundled them both into his bedroom.  “Pajamas, Lock… Then, as promised, I’ll play for you after dinner.”

 

**4.**

“Mycie…  _ My-cie!”   _

Mycroft was fairly certain that it was the middle of the night, and that he would have to be at the work in the morning.  Not that he had any idea how he would accomplish that with a curious toddler bouncing around his office, and potentially escaping out into the corridor.  

The idea of Sherlock running amok through the elegant, entirely unchildproofed corridors of Whitehall was something that would give any any person nightmares.

“ _ My-cie!   _ Wake up!”  The voice demanded again, thin and pitched up with annoyance.  

Suppressing a yawn against the back of his hand, Mycroft finally-- and very reluctantly-- cracked open his eyes and looked down at the mop topped little boy standing at the side of his bed.  His curls were flattened on one side, as evidence that Sherlock had actually slept, at least for a short while, and with a sigh that trailed off from his yawn, Mycroft lifted the edge of the blankets for his brother.

“Sherlock, it’s three in the morning, what are you doing awake?”

Grinning unabashedly at his victory, Sherlock scrambled up into the open space, and planted his icy little feet against his brother’s sleep warm thigh, “Not sleepy!”  He chirped, but his voice strained a bit, and his fingers curled just a bit too tightly in the jacket of Mycroft’s pajamas. 

It had been years since he’s held him after a nightmare, but not so long that Mycroft couldn’t remember what it felt like.

“I see…”  He drawled tiredly, and draped his heavy arm around his brother’s small shoulders, gathering him in just a bit closer to his chest, “And so you thought, ‘ _ I can’t sleep, and so Mycroft shan’t be allowed, either’ _ ?  How very generous of you to share your insomnia, brother mine.”

“Shh! Sleeping now.  Night, Mycie.” 

Sherlock’s voice was half muffled against Mycroft’s pajamas, and he could feel the warmth as the little boy snuggled in deep, and wriggled his toes under the blanket.  He smelled like tear-free shampoo and baby soap; a soft, rounded lump of toddler that had commandeered half of his bed.

“Goodnight, Lockie.”  

For a few moments, Mycroft almost thought that he would allowed to fall back to sleep; his gritty eyes sliding closed of their own volition.  It was, after all, beyond the witching hour, and a good time for all little children and civil servants to be asleep.

Unfortunately, (and predictably, he chided himself!) the peace lasted only as long as it took Sherlock to select a new question from his inexhaustible list.

Sherlock squirmed a little as he thought, curling his tongue against the roof of his mouth, like he could test the weight of the words before he said them.  

But this was Mycroft!  He could ask him anything-- couldn’t he?

He’d come to save him that afternoon, and surely the angry man in the oatmeal jumper was scarier than one little question!  Besides, his brother was going to be the first mate on his ship some day, and all pirates had to be brave.

Especially the captain.

“When I’m big again, will you be too busy for me, too?”

Behind Sherlock’s eyelids, he could see the clumsy slant of his own letters, worked in the dust covering the piano.  Would have happen to him, too? Was that maybe why Mycroft lived here in the city, instead of at home, with him?

Mycroft’s heart clenched, and he pulled Sherlock a little tighter to his heart.  “Dearest, no. No. I will never be too busy for you. You’re my brother, and--” 

How long had it been since either of them had said those words?

Years.  So many years that Mycroft had stopped counting, and the simple affection between them had been overtaken by sharp words and barbed comments.

“And I love you.”  He murmured into Sherlock’s disheveled curls, and kissed the top of his head, like he had done a million times when they were both still small.  “Now, what’s all this about you being ‘big again’? 

Mycroft didn’t bother to look down-- not when the huff of exasperation was more than enough to picture the look on his brother’s face.

“You’re old.  But not supposed to be  _ that _ old.  And I was wearing grown up clothes.  And angry man was looking at me weird.  I’m not  _ stupid,  _ Mycie.”

“No, not stupid at all.  Very bright, in fact. And entirely right.  You were bigger, until this afternoon. Neither of us are entirely certain what happened to you; you were doing an experiment of some kind, and then…”

“Little.”

“Indeed, just so.”  

“Do you see me lots?”

Mycroft swallowed harder than expected, and felt the tension burn in his throat. How could he explain this to Sherlock?  How decades of well-meaning mistakes and betrayals had left chipped away at their relationship?

They’d been close when they were young. Inseparable.  Sherlock hanging off his hand, impatient and pulling-- until Mycroft had been turned sixteen, and been the one moving ahead.  Leaving his brother behind, because there had been no other option.

How could he tell this version of his brother, staring up at him with those mad curls, and searching blue-green eyes in the darkness, that in the future, Sherlock would ask for the one thing Mycroft couldn’t give him.  

“Not as much as I should.  But we’re both very busy.”

“Should try harder.”

“I know, and I should.  But sometimes, dearest, when people get older?  Things change. People change. And you and I… Well, we don’t get on as well as we used to.  We fight more, and …” Mycroft trailed off, his voice compressed around the lump that had returned to his throat.  “You’re right, I should try harder.”

Mollified by the reassurance, Sherlock wriggled down into the blankets a little more securely, and pulled the heavy weight of the duvet up around his ears.  Mycroft supposed he’d have stolen the entire thing before morning! (But he couldn’t bring himself to mind, not really.)

“Penguins mates for life.  Swans, too.”

“Mate, Lockie.. Not ‘mates’.  And do they?”

Just when Mycroft thought it might be safe to try sleeping again, it seemed like Sherlock had seized on another subject.  A little midnight zoology-- well, nothing was dull with his little brother around! 

“They do.  You’re like my swan.”

It wasn’t the first time he had said it, but it had been years.

_ “You know how I feel about you.  I’m old enough to know what I want!  I’m almost twenty, Mycroft-- not a little boy anymore!  You want it, too, I can see it. We could be so happy, you just have to try  Just a little effort! You love me, I know you love me! And there’s nobody else for either of us-- you know that!” _

_ “Sherlock, please.  This is the withdrawal talki--” _

_ “It’s not, and you know it isn’t!  Is that why you’re so afraid of this?  You think I’m going to regret this when I’m sober?  I’ve wanted to-- only you. Since I was fourteen! It’s not going to stop, and it’s not going to go away, and the only reason you still try to look at me like a child is because then it was safe to love me.  Now that I’m an adult, and I want you, you’re scared to death.” _

_ “This is wrong, we can’t--” _

_ “Damn you, Mycroft Holmes!  Fine! Be a coward. But you’re condemning us both to being alone!” _

Mycroft tried to force down his own bitter memories, and resisted the urge to shuffle Sherlock back to his own room.  Sherlock had been right-- but even Mycroft couldn’t change the past. He could keep this version of his brother safe; but the rest was out of his hands.  He could only hope Sherlock didn’t remember this when he came back to himself. “Are you certain I’m not a penguin, Lock? I do look better ina tuxedo than feathers.”

“Swan.”

“Yes, alright… I’ll be your swan.”

“Promise?”  Sherlock looked up, his eyes wide as he tried to deduce Mycroft in the dark.

“I swear it.  Now close your eyes; it’s very late, and we don’t want to be growly and cross in the morning.”

Still smiling against Mycroft’s heart, Sherlock obediently did as he was told, and slipped contentedly to sleep.

 

**5.**

“Where in the bloody-- Mycroft?” 

For the second time in less than 12 hours, Mycroft stirred and opened his eyes, rubbing the sleep from the corners with his knuckles.  And then he glanced sideways, at the tall, lanky figure taking up half the bed-- and the low, baritone voice that was a million years from the childish, piping trill it had been the night before.

His heart sank a little.

“Mycroft!”  Sherlock insisted again, already trying to extract himself from the tangled, torn remnants of what had been a toddler’s pajamas.  He looked ridiculous, with his curls still plastered down on one side, and his tattered, former sleeves-- complete with their print of small, dancing sheep-- looped around his wrists like unconventional bracelets.

“Ah.”  Mycroft said slowly, and felt one of the popped buttons under his palm when he pushed himself up into a sitting position, “Well, it… Seems as though your experiment had a shorter half life than I feared.  Welcome back, brother mine.” 

“Experiment?  What the Hell happened to me?  And why am I in  _ your _ bed?”

Sherlock felt like he’d just stumbled down the rabbit hole, his head swimming with disjointed fragments of half-remembered memories.  Of looking up at the world from a very different angle, and feeling wholly… Entirely… Safe.

He didn’t like it.  

  
The not knowing, not the safety-- even as stroppy as he felt about the former, the latter was actually rather nice.

Mycroft scrubbed his hand back through his own messy hair, and yawned into the crook of his arm demurely, “I don’t know what sort of experiment.  Only that it had something to do with a vast quantity of purpish dust, and that it seems to have taken about 18 hours for the effects to wear off.  You’ve been… Young. Impossibly young.”

Sherlock grit his teeth, and yanked the cuffs over his wrists impatiently, a few threads in the seams popping.  He had no desire to tell Mycroft that he’d woken up in his arms-- that, for a moment, he hadn’t wanted to move, because it was always such a nice dream; but it was always upsetting when he woke up, and it vanished.

How he had almost allowed the cadence of his heart to lull him back to sleep, until he’d realized that he was rather… Bare.  Under the covers. And Mycroft was fully dressed in his pajama trousers and jacket.

It was like being nineteen all over again, and sliding into his brother’s room.  His bed. His clumsy heart held out in his cupped hands, and Mycroft’s cutting rejection.

That had woken him with a jolt.

“You will send me all the details, and everything you remember.  And I am going back to my  _ own _ flat.”  Shoulders squared, Sherlock swung his feet out of bed, and made an rough grab for his brother’s robe.  A brief glance around the bedroom revealed no sign of his clothes, or his jacket-- no shoes, and no wallet with his cab fare back to Baker Street.  No cell phone, either. “Damn…”

“You can borrow some of mine-”

“And look like I was wearing a tent?  You could fit most of the Russian Circus in your trousers,  _ brother _ .  And your shirts could double as a tent for the West Bank exhibition!”

Sherlock regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.  And, dressed in only the watered silk robe, he swept out of the bedroom like he was being chased.  He didn’t look back to see the slapped, surprised look on his brother’s face. 

_ I’m sorry, Mycie _ .

A few hours later, showered and dressed, Sherlock perched on the edge of his chair with his chin steepled on his fingertips.  He could remember just enough to be maddeningly aware that he was missing things. Possibly important things. Things that would more clearly explain how he had ended up in his brother’s bed, of all places!

“Hey, mate, what do you want done with all this dust business?”  John called through from the kitchen, his voice muffled by the sleeve he’d pressed over his nose and mouth.  Filling the kettle had never seemed quite so treacherous, even when Sherlock’s experiments had involved a strange, vaguely luminescent mold, and the contents of an unfortunate cadaver’s chest cavity.

Sherlock glanced up, and his pinched look of supreme annoyance faded marginally when he saw the mauve dust still covering most of the kitchen surfaces.  It streaked up the walls, and across the fridge, drifted against the edge of his bunsen burner, and in the nooks and crannies of the cabinets.

Right, he thought, he should find someone to clean that up. Preferably before anyone else found themselves knee-tall, and with a strange, persistent craving for a glass of chocolate milk.

“What do I want  _ done _ with it?” He sniped impatiently, and threw himself back into his chair with a dramatic flounce, “It’s a dust, John.  You clean it up. Preferably with a rag, and some sort of industrial solvent, unless you plan to spend the rest of your day as a child!  And if you think, for one moment, that I won’t be handing you off to Molly, or Mrs. Hudson, you would be entirely wrong!”

John arched an eyebrow, and shook his head.  It was too early in the morning for one of Sherlock’s tantrums-- in fact, it was always too early.

He had just managed to shuffle aside the dishes in the sink, enough to twist the kettle under the faucet, when he heard an ominously thoughtful hum from the living room.   _ Oh no _ .  It was much too early for a new experiment, either!  “Do I want to know what you’re thinking?” He asked warily, and watched from the corner of his eye as Sherlock stalked into the kitchen.

“I doubt it.”

“Right, don’t tell me, then.  Just let me know if you, I don’t know, need a bit of space.  Or for me to leave the flat. In fact!” John added, and tried not to breathe in too deeply, when Sherlock began rummaging through the remains of yesterday’s experiment, small eddies of fine, mauve dust drifting in the air, “I think I’ll go see Mary tonight. Stay over. Let you do... Whatever this is!”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth slowly curved up, making him look decidedly Puckish (and confirming for John that he most definitely needed-- no, had earned!-- a night out)  

“If you like.”  He drawled, and stoppered a clear, glass vial of dust. 

Smoothing his thumb along the side of the glass, Sherlock raised it up to the window, intrigued by the way it seemed to catch the light in tiny flecks.  

“I was a little beastly to Mycroft this morning… I think I’ll go apologize.”

“Since when aren’t y-- no.  Oh, Sherlock, no! That’s more than a little bit not good!”  John exclaimed, and cut across himself, watching Sherlock as he watched the settling purple dust.  “You can’t seriously be considering-!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, John.”  

He didn’t miss the way Sherlock casually slid the vial into his pocket.

Smirking to himself, Sherlock jogged down the stairs, and raised his hand to flag down a cab.  

Sherlock wasn’t a child anymore, and he was thoroughly fed up with waiting for his brother to realize the truth.  They fit together. Belonged together. And it was long passed time that he reminded Mycroft of that fact-- instead of letting his fears stand in the way of their happiness.

“Knightsbridge.”  He informed the cabbie, and fingered the weight of the vial in his pocket.

Mycroft worked too hard.  And they did say a change was as good as a rest.

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> 1\. 'Oranges and Lemons' is a British folk song, nursery rhyme, and playground game. It's just the sort of slightly morbid thing I think the young Holmes would have loved!  
> (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oranges_and_Lemons)


End file.
